Читать книгу A Lady of Quality - Louise Gouge M. - Страница 12

Chapter Four

“Ah. There you are, my dear.” Lady Blakemore’s expression was pleasant, but a hint of displeasure shaded her words.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Catherine struggled to appear calm. How could Mr. Radcliff have vanished without a sound? He had been yards away from the servants’ entrance and across the room from the door Lady Blakemore just entered. Perhaps a secret portal in that papered wall? The vertical fence posts among the rose vines might disguise a seam. Such an escape could prove useful to her one day. She struggled to dismiss the mystery and pay attention to her employer. “I thought I was to meet you here.”

“Hmm. Well, no matter.” Lady Blakemore studied Catherine up and down. “You look quite charming, my dear, but not too pretentious for a companion.” She waved Catherine to a red tapestry settee near the alabaster hearth and sat in an adjacent chair. “Now, today, we will be at home, although not formally. Only a few friends will be calling to discuss plans for the upcoming festivities in August. While there will be countless formal state celebrations, many of us wish to have our own private parties to celebrate the war’s end.” She fluttered an exquisite blue silk fan before her face. “Mrs. Parton will be here soon, of course. Perhaps Lady Bennington...” Folding the fan, she tapped it thoughtfully against her opposite hand, listing other possible attendees for the afternoon.

And Lord Winston? Catherine could not help but wonder whether Lady Blakemore had entirely forgotten her invitation to the baron.

“So, of course that means we must cut short our time with Lord Winston. Should he fail to finish his appointment with Blakemore in time, we will have to inform him that his visit must wait.” Was that a question in Lady Blakemore’s eyes as she spoke?

“Yes, my lady.” Catherine schooled her expression to display indifference, despite her disappointment. Yet why should she be disappointed? Hadn’t Mr. Radcliff told her of Lord Winston’s ambitions to accompany Lord Blakemore to France in late August? If the baron succeeded in attaching himself to the earl, she would be in his company for more than sufficient time to engage his interest and ply him for the truth about his plot against Papa.

On the one hand, she could hardly wait to get started. On the other, she wondered if she was up to the task, for her lies continued to grate upon her soul. At those times, she pictured poor Mama, Lucien and Isabella being confined to their home in Norfolk and living every moment in fear of bad news, even arrest. She imagined Papa hiding in some hovel or cave, unable to venture out even to obtain food. Such thoughts were sufficient to renew her determination to bring wicked, lying Lord Winston to justice.

* * *

“I admire your integrity, Winston.” Lord Blakemore clapped him on the shoulder and guided him away from the oak desk across which they had discussed Winston’s future. “Many a young whelp in his first year in Parliament would jump at the chance to play the spy.” At a small grouping of furniture near the spacious office’s tall windows, the earl gave a gracious wave of his hand. “Sit here, my boy, so you can view my wife’s exquisite gardens.” He chose a straight-backed chair for himself. “I had thought you the perfect candidate for espionage after the du Coeur affair. A great bit of luck, those letters falling into your hands the way they did.” He absently lined up a book with the edge of the mahogany table beside him. “Tell me all the details of how it happened.” Interest lit his round face.

Winston silenced the pride that tried to well up within him each time he related the event. After all, none of it had been his doing. “Very simply, in late January a young boy brought the packet of letters to my home in Surrey. A footman received them and placed them on my desk.”

“Ah.” Blakemore scratched his chin. “And who was this boy?”

“The footman said he was a short, stocky lad of about ten or so. He did not give a name.”

“Hmm.” The earl stared off toward the windows. “Lady Blakemore’s roses have done exceedingly well this year, especially the reds.” He seemed to have forgotten their conversation, at least for a moment. Then he focused again on Winston. “Perhaps we should question your footman a bit more. Find out what we can about that lad.”

Winston’s heart sank. He had no doubt the letters were authentic, but he had still been in mourning over Father’s death and had not thought clearly how to handle the matter. “Harry had been with us only a few weeks, and the work did not suit him. He left in February to join the army, and I have no idea of his fate.”

“Bad luck, that.” Blakemore clicked his tongue and gave his head a little shake. “In any event, your quick thinking in delivering the letters to the Home Office was brilliant. Why, you saved our country and the Prince Regent from great disgrace, not to mention saving old Louis’s very life. Will you not reconsider espionage?”

“I thank you, sir, but no.” Winston lifted a hand to cover an artificial cough while he considered how to make his excuses. He must take care not to sound overly proud of something that had come his way through no effort of his own. Nor must he sound judgmental of those who chose to spy. Father had often chided him for both pride and judging others too harshly. “Of course, I understand some men are called to employ subterfuge, even as the Scriptures tell us that both Moses and Joshua sent out spies to explore the land of Canaan. But the Almighty has not directed me to such a path.”

Blakemore chuckled in his jolly, mellow way, but the wiliness in his eyes dispelled all impressions that he was anyone’s fool. If that were not enough for Winston to trust him, he had Father’s recommendation. Look to Blakemore and Bennington for your examples, my son. They will not lead you astray. In his four months in London, Winston had come to admire both earls. Now that Bennington was consumed with family matters regarding several of his eight offspring, Winston was grateful that Blakemore would consider stepping in as his mentor. Now if he could persuade him to take him to Paris as part of his diplomatic entourage, Winston would have achieved a cherished dream.

“I admire your determination to seek God’s direction, for above all, we must receive our orders from above.” Blakemore pointed upward, and his expression softened. “Kings and princes come and go, nations rise and fall, but only God is eternal.”

“Indeed.” Most Englishmen, Winston included, would say England was eternal as well, for she clearly had the blessing of the Almighty. Still, he was pleased to hear Blakemore speak of his faith, for it affirmed all that Father had said about him.

“Now.” The earl sat forward in his chair. “Concerning your request, why do you wish to accompany my little band to France? What do you hope to gain?” With his lighthearted tone, the earl might well have been asking why Winston wanted to tag along on a picnic.

“To serve God by serving my king and country.” And to obtain through his own efforts the earldom the old king promised to Father. But he would not bring up that matter. At least not until he knew Blakemore better, and Blakemore knew him.

“Very commendable.” The earl slapped his hands on his chubby knees. “Just what I hoped to hear. And furthermore, I believe you, my boy. You are a credit to your father.”

“Again, I thank you.” Even as warm satisfaction filled Winston’s chest, his mind sprinkled bits of icy doubt on the earl’s last affirmation. While other gentlemen might praise him, Father had never quite given his full approval, nor had God. All the more reason to continue his quest for righteousness through serving his king or, in this case, the Prince Regent.

“Now, about another matter.” One of the earl’s bushy eyebrows rose while the other one dipped.

Winston sensed his peer was about to impart some sage advice or dire warning. He did not know whether to be honored or concerned. “Yes, sir?”

“Scripture states that whoso finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor of the Lord. It is my conviction that every gentleman who enters the diplomatic corps must be married. An agreeable wife provides stability, settles something in a man’s heart, not to mention fulfills the duties of hostess for those obligatory entertainments.” Once again, his expression grew wily. “Have you found a wife, my boy?”

Winston cleared his throat, feeling the pinch of embarrassment. “I have not, but not for want of trying.” The only two ladies who had attracted his interest had chosen others, two brothers, in fact.

“Ah, yes.” The earl chuckled. “Well, never mind that. Plenty of fish in the sea.” Again one eyebrow lowered. “I noticed that you sat with Lady Blakemore’s companion at Drayton’s supper last night. Did you find Miss Hart’s company agreeable?”

Winston’s cravat seemed to tighten around his neck. He felt the need to loosen it, but clasped his hands together to prevent such a self-conscious gesture. “Agreeable. Yes. Entirely pleasant.”

Blakemore leaned back with a frown. “I gather you have some reservations about the young lady.”

At this perfect opening for his questions, Winston gave a slight shrug to suggest he was indifferent, though his emotions were far from detached. The young lady had occupied his thoughts since last night and even more so since this morning, when his discussion with Edgar had generated a certain protectiveness toward her. But it would not do to confess such feelings to the earl. “In truth, I know nothing of her family or her pedigree. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

Blakemore blinked and gripped his round chin thoughtfully. “Why, I have no idea. Lady Blakemore would not have hired her without the proper pedigree.”

“Of course not.” Winston hoped his question had not cast aspersions on the countess. From Blakemore’s good-natured expression, he guessed it had not. Still, it would help if he knew whether Miss Hart came from the gentry or the aristocracy.

“However, if she does not suit you, then do not give the matter another thought.” Blakemore stood, and Winston had no choice but to do the same. Nothing had been settled by their discussion, but he dared not press the matter of accompanying the earl to France, lest he cause offense. Following him toward the door of the chamber, Winston had a clear view of the top of Blakemore’s balding head, which barely reached his own shoulder. Yet so much character and power resided within the shorter man that Winston could not help but hold him in great esteem.

The earl stopped abruptly and faced Winston, wagging a paternal finger in his direction. “I would not have you marry in haste, my boy, but if you can find a suitable wife by mid-August when our party leaves for Paris, then all the better for your ability to serve king and country at my side.”

Winston’s heart raced. The earl had just as much as said he was accepted as part of the delegation to the French. At least, it sounded that way. “I thank you, sir. I shall certainly make every effort to do so.”

“Now, you must excuse me. I have some correspondence that will not keep.” Blakemore opened the office door and beckoned to his secretary. “Radcliff, see Winston down to the ladies, will you?”

“Yes, my lord.” Edgar rose from his desk and hurried around it, bowing as he came. “This way, Lord Winston.”

“Now, now, Radcliff.” Blakemore chuckled in his inimitable way. “I know Winston is your cousin, and you are his heir. When we are in private company, you may call him Winston.” He eyed Winston. “With your permission?”

“Of course.” Winston punctuated his assertion with an amiable pat to Edgar’s shoulder. “My cousin is a friend who is closer than a brother.”

“Indeed.” Blakemore’s eyebrows arched, then furrowed. “Well, then, carry on.” He turned and disappeared into his office.

Edgar waved away Winston’s apologetic grimace. “How did it go?”

“I think he said I am to accompany him, but it was rather indirect.” He searched his mind for some way to interpret the earl’s remarks. “He did say I should marry.”

“Then let us begin the pursuit. This way to the drawing room.” Edgar marched across the carpeted anteroom with the bearing of a footman. Always the perfect servant, even though he would have had the title after Father’s death had Winston not been born. As always, Winston was humbled by his cousin’s lack of self-importance. Somehow he must find a way to elevate his standing in Society.

As they descended the wide staircase to the first floor, passing giant portraits of Blakemore ancestors and other English nobility, the babble of feminine voices reached their ears.

“Ah. Lady Blakemore’s guests.” Edgar snickered. “A gaggle of giddy geese, if ever I heard one.” He glanced at Winston as if seeking his agreement.

Winston shrugged, unsure of what to think. In this moment of uncertainty, Edgar was no help at all, especially when he nudged Winston forward. “Enjoy yourself, cousin.” Then he scurried back up the broad stairway.

Neither did the blue-liveried footman at the drawing-room door offer any help, for his face was a blank page.

“I believe Lady Blakemore is expecting me.” He tried to sound severe, but his voice cracked as if he were a twelve-year-old boy. Did every young aristocrat suffer such difficulties during his first year in London Society? Or was it merely the uncertainty of what lay beyond this door with all of those ladies?

The old footman’s blank facade remained in place. “Yes, milord.” He opened the door and announced, “Lord Winston.”

Winston forced his feet over the threshold. The instant he entered, silence swept over the room, and a dozen or so mostly older ladies’ faces turned in his direction, eyes sparkling with interest. A certain young lady, the only one he had hoped to encounter, directed her gaze toward the cold white hearth, clearly indifferent to his arrival.

* * *

Catherine could barely make out Lord Winston’s reflection in the shiny silver vase beside her, but the view was sufficient to reveal he was looking her way with some degree of chagrin. Good. She would remain properly aloof until she had secured his interest.

“Gracious, Winston.” Lady Blakemore moved toward him. “You gentlemen always claim that we ladies talk overlong, but you and Blakemore have prolonged your discussion into my meeting time.” She lifted a gloved hand toward him. He took it and executed a perfect bow over it.

“My apologies, madam.” Winston did not sound flustered, but the warm color of his cheeks indicated some high feeling. “Another time, then?”

“Oh, no,” cried one of the ladies, Lady Grandly, if Catherine was not mistaken. “We must have a gentleman’s opinion about our fetes, mustn’t we, ladies?”

A chorus of indistinguishable but agreeable remarks filled the room. Catherine swallowed a laugh to see Lord Winston backing toward the door.

“I hardly think...” He held up his hands in an attempt to ward off two other ladies, to no avail. Each seized an arm and almost dragged him into the room.

Where had they learned their manners? Catherine’s mother would be horrified to see such behavior. Perhaps members of London’s haute ton had their own set of social rules. The two older ladies drew the baron to a long settee in the center of the room and across from Catherine. She slowly turned to face him so as not to seem as eager as the others for his presence.

Yet he stared at her with a helpless, hapless expression in his eyes. Could it be a plea for her help? She offered a brief consoling smile, but quickly sobered. A companion must never attempt to compete with eligible young Society ladies such as the Misses Waddington, each of whom took a seat at Lord Winston’s side. One cast a cross glance at Catherine, and she stared down at her folded hands, forbidding her temper to rise. She was the daughter of Comte du Coeur, a French nobleman equal to an English earl, and she had precedence over these two spoiled daughters of a mere English baron. For now, she must play the part of a nonentity. Yet with the French nobility who had remained loyal to Louis all the rage among the English aristocracy these days, those silly girls would be appalled over their own rudeness to her if they learned who she was.

“Ladies, please.” Lady Blakemore stood in the center of the room, her arms crossed. “Do release poor Winston to whatever business he must attend to.”

“Indeed,” dear old Mrs. Parton huffed. “You must not delay him from his work.”

“But Parliament does not meet today.” Lady Grandly gazed fondly at her two daughters, the girls sitting on either side of Lord Winston. “So his business cannot be too pressing.”

A second baroness, plump and handsome in her old age, added, “We must convince Winston to attend the assembly at Almack’s tonight, mustn’t we, ladies?”

Again the room buzzed with agreement. Catherine stifled another laugh as Lord Winston’s color deepened. How could such a wicked man blush? No doubt it was due to his fair coloring. She had always pictured Papa’s accuser as being cool and calculating, utterly in command of himself and able to send a man to his death without a qualm. Perhaps even a ladies’ man. Lord Winston seemed to possess none of those qualities.

“Tut-tut.” Lady Blakemore, tall and regal, tapped her fan against her open palm. “Release the poor gentleman. I have an errand for him, so you must not imprison him any longer.”

“At your service, madam.” Lord Winston stood so abruptly that one of the Miss Waddingtons nearly fell into the spot he vacated.

Catherine had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing. Apparently the baron was oblivious to his own charms. All the better for her plans.

* * *

Winston grasped Lady Blakemore’s call to service like a lifeline. “How may I assist you, madam?”

The countess’s jaw dropped slightly, and she batted her eyelids. “Ah. Well. It is not a matter that will interest these ladies. Would you be so good as to follow me out?” She stepped over and gripped his arm, propelling instead of leading him toward the door.

The footman inside the room opened the way for them, and the countess shoved him through the portal, leaving behind muted cries of disappointment.

Winston did not know whether to be flattered or irritated. Where were these ladies last night at the marquess’s gala, when he could not find a supper partner until the last minute due to all the uniforms in the ballroom? Ah, the mysteries of women.

Once outside in the foyer, Lady Blakemore waved him to an occasional chair beside a small table. “Sit here.” She disappeared back into the drawing room.

He sat on the brown tapestry-covered chair, not relaxing in the slightest. Had the countess merely meant to rescue him, she would have sent him on his way. But now he had no choice but to wait for whatever she had planned.

Within thirty seconds, she reappeared, Miss Hart trailing behind her. Winston’s chest tightened. He did not care for being manipulated, if that was what Lady Blakemore was doing. But then, was he not contradicting himself? Had he not brought Mrs. Parton’s landau so he could take the young lady for a drive if all went well?

“Winston, Miss Hart must run an errand for me. I saw that you brought Julia’s landau. Would you be so good as to drive her?” The countess’s face revealed no guile, but her eyes did have a certain brightness about them.

“Madam, I should be honored to do your bidding.” Most errands were the work of footmen, but after she had rescued him from the bedlam of her drawing room, he would not complain. “Miss Hart.” He bowed to her and offered his arm.

“Lord Winston.” She curtsied and placed a hand on his arm, but gave him no smile. Turning to the countess, she said, “Before we go, my lady, perhaps you should tell me what you would have me do.”

“Oh.” Lady Blakemore blinked. “Why, I... Hmm.” She tapped her chin with a long, tapered finger and stared off for a moment. “Why, flowers, of course. You must go to Mr. Lambert’s flower shop on Duke Street and order several large bouquets of flowers.”

Now Miss Hart blinked. “Flowers?”

“Why, yes, my dear. We must have flowers for the supper table this evening.” More blinking, along with a tilt of her head. “We always require fresh flowers when having guests.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Miss Hart’s lovely face crinkled with confusion. “I thought we were dining alone this evening. Who is your guest, if I may ask?”

“Why, Lord Winston, of course.” The countess turned a beaming smile on him. “You seemed unenthusiastic about attending Almack’s tonight, so I thought I should provide you with an excuse to decline. What better way to avoid the assembly than to have supper with us?”

He chuckled, then laughed aloud. “So you would have me fetch flowers for the sole purpose of entertaining me?”

“What a clever boy you are.” She patted his cheek. “Now run along. And if you decide to take a turn around Hyde Park after going to Duke Street, I believe the rain will hold off for another few hours.”

In spite of the warmth creeping up his neck due to her overly maternal gesture, he marveled at her ability to create such a scheme so quickly. With both Lord and Lady Blakemore pushing him toward Miss Hart, he had no choice but to go along with it. The drive in the park was his plan all along, and their approval seemed the confirmation he needed. If all went well, supper tonight would be an added benefit. If not, he could always beg off.

“Madam, I thank you.” He placed a hand over Miss Hart’s, which still rested on his arm. To his surprise, she did not seem to share their merriment, if her frown and lifted chin were any indication of her temperament. Perhaps this would not be the pleasant outing he had anticipated after all. This business of courting was thoroughly confusing to him. Was it his responsibility to cheer her? Or hers to amuse him?

Or would they merely tolerate each other while dancing to Lord and Lady Blakemore’s tune?